When I got my acceptance letter to one of the most prestigious music colleges in the world, I cried in disbelief. This was a very big deal, but my parents were hesitant to let me go. “It’s too competitive. You won’t like it there,” they’d say. I began to talk to both past and current students who gave mostly good reviews. I also thought about the college’s ridiculous list of famous alumni. It must be amazing, I thought. I received a letter in the mail a few weeks later notifying me that I had been chosen to receive the selective North American Tour scholarship, which sealed the deal. My parents agreed to let me go, despite their reservations.

The rest of senior year was gone in the blink of an eye. After a long summer of anticipation, September finally came around, and I found myself double-parked in my mom’s minivan, loaded with almost everything I owned. I hopped in line to get my dorm room keys, and didn’t see a single smiling face. Afterwards, I met up with my parents and got in another line for the single rickety elevator that would bring me to my floor and my room, which would be my home for the next year. As I waited, I heard people whistling like I’ve never heard whistling before – incredibly in tune and rich in tone. I was intimidated by the musical abilities I was overhearing. I looked around at the sea of unsmiling faces, and I could feel eyes on me, judging me.

A few weeks passed, and I wasn’t feeling particularly happy at college, but it was bearable. I figured that it would just take some time to adjust. My roommates were okay; we had met online over the summer, and it had felt like a good fit at the time, but we just didn’t click in person. They were both extroverts, while I liked to keep to myself. We hung out quite a bit in the first few weeks, but after I declined a few invites to go to parties with them, they started to ignore me. Whatever, I thought. I tried making friends elsewhere. First, I tried out for 12 different bands and choirs, but got rejected from all of them. I started feeling very discouraged.

Not only did my social life begin to crumble, but soon, going to class became unbearable. The very thought of Music Theory or Ear Training would induce an anxiety attack. I harbor a lot of musical talent, however, I did not have a lot of knowledge about music theory as a vocalist. Meanwhile, some of my peers had parents who were famous musicians, had already recorded three albums, or had learned to play five different instruments by age four. I was intimidated to say the least.

Every time I went to class, the teacher would drill us on music theory, which was still a foreign language to me. When I didn’t answer a question correctly or was so nervous about answering that I said, “I don’t know,” the other students would laugh at me and the professor would scold me in front of the whole class. One time, I couldn’t answer a question, and the teacher got frustrated trying to walk me through it. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a classmate with his face in his hands, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe how stupid I was. I was so embarrassed that I began to tremble in my chair, and I could feel tears gathering in my eyes. I ran out of class before I started crying in front of everyone. After that, I stopped going to class entirely.

For the next few weeks, I tried to assess what I was doing wrong. Maybe I didn’t have enough experience or discipline. I figured that the fact that I wasn’t making friends wasn’t a judgment of my musical ability, but of my character. I couldn’t figure out why everyone seemed so fake, and I began blaming myself.

I started missing deadlines, and my grades plummeted from A’s and B’s to D’s and F’s. I began staying up until 6 a.m. and sleeping in until 4 p.m. Once, I stayed in bed for two days straight.

I was in a downward spiral, but I didn’t do anything about it. My appetite drastically decreased, and I isolated myself to the point where I didn’t talk to anyone for weeks. I was alive, but I sure wasn’t living. I felt like no one would understand. In late October, it finally reached the point where I was sprawled out on my dorm room floor, overdosed on my prescribed medication, waiting for an ambulance that I had called myself.

During my senior year of high school, I had been diagnosed with bipolar depression. To put it simply, that means I can experience life-threatening mood swings. These are often triggered by big changes – a loss, the end of a relationship, or a drastic environmental change – but sometimes the overwhelming bouts of sadness come for no reason.

I was admitted to a hospital for two weeks, which didn’t do much to help me. The night before I went, my boyfriend and I got into a huge argument, and he refused to answer my calls during my hospital stay. I was heartbroken. After I was discharged, he broke up with me, because he “couldn’t deal with it anymore.” Through the years, I have lost countless friends and relationships due to my bipolar depression. I felt powerless and guilty about something that I couldn’t control.

Before the end of the semester, I made the difficult decision to leave college. Despite its prestige and the connections I could have made, it simply was not a healthy environment for me. My parents were livid. Everyone I was close to was disappointed in me. I begged my parents to let me take a semester off, but unfortunately, they did not believe I had a mental illness and thought I was simply seeking attention. They threatened to kick me out of the house if I didn’t start school immediately in the spring. My worst fears had come true: no one understood what I was going through or was willing to accommodate my needs. I was being bullied into doing things that weren’t right for me. With dread, I applied to a nearby state school, and I cried when I got in, not because I couldn’t believe it this time, but because I didn’t want to go.

Currently, I am a sophomore at Salem State, and I haven’t been this happy in a long time. For the first time, I am surrounded by a supportive group of people. I rarely feel judged here, and though I have always been an introvert I am slowly becoming more extroverted. This supportive environment has allowed me to flourish. Even though I am no longer at a prestigious music conservatory, I am healthy, happy, and ultimately, accomplishing more than I could have ever hoped to there. My band is in the process of recording an album and we have our first gigs coming up. Being here allows me to be in a comfortable learning environment while still being able to do what I love.

In finding my niche, I have discovered that life is all about balance. Not only does this resonate with the struggle I have balancing the hemispheres of my brain, but it reminds me that sometimes you have to make compromises in order to reach a better outcome. I have learned that with every battle we face, we get closer to something greater. The more we suffer, the more human we become. I have come to believe that personal struggle can help you express yourself more beautifully and be more effective at helping others. This realization has helped me come to terms with my mental illness.

As an aspiring musician, I often feel like I am the most productive in times of intense sadness or happiness. So many talented artists, musicians, actresses, and writers – van Gogh, Kurt Cobain, and Sylvia Plath to name a few – struggled with mental illness. Because they were able to feel so deeply, they created rich pieces of art that truly move people. People in ancient Greece believed a state of melancholy or mania to be a divine state.

To know that my illness is not necessarily a curse, but can be perceived as a gift, gives me comfort. Whatever battle you face, you should know that you’re not alone. There will always be something great awaiting you on the other side. The most beautiful flowers have endured the coldest winters. In the words of novelist Anais Nin, “Something is always born of excess: great art was born of great terror, great loneliness, great inhibitions, instabilities, and it always balances them.”